Because I am 65-or-older and currently work as a long-term substitute teacher, I am eligible to receive a COVID-19 shot. I signed up to get my shot, the first of two, at St. Luke’s.

Since the most recent stats say only 8 percent of Americans have received a COVID shot, chances are you’re still waiting for yours. So I thought I’d tell you what it’s like, or at least what it was like for me.

By now we’re all pretty good at reading signs and dealing with protocols. There are a lot of doors at St. Luke’s but only one has a large “COVID Vaccinations Here (Must Have Appointment)” sign in front of it. It’s a one-way hallway. Everything in this process is one-way.

I arrived at 7:30 in the morning, where I was greeted by a smiling young woman who made sure I was me. Then I was personally ushered to a large desk with several computer screens and several people working behind them.

These were the people making sure all the shots would be properly paid for — by private insurance, Medicare or whatever. And since anything directly involving money is always complicated, there were a lot of them to make sure it was getting done correctly.

But regardless of the tedium of shepherding digital money from one column to another, they really were all smiling, despite the early hour.

I also realized the other similarity between them all. Since I’d walked into the building, about four out of five of workers I encountered were female. I have no idea what this signifies, but I know if I was young and unattached, this is where I’d be applying for work.

After the payment gauntlet, I was ushered into a private room where I would get my shot. We talked briefly about which arm to stick. Since I spend part of each day playing my guitar, I pondered briefly which arm to offer up.

“Oh, you’re a guitar player,” he said. “Do you own a Rickenbacker?”

I was impressed. And I decided a snappy, off-the-cuff remark deserved a snappy comeback.

“No,” I said, “I haven’t found my inner John Lennon yet.”

Older guitar players will get this joke. For the rest of you — back to the story.

I received the shot in my left arm, a few inches south of my shoulder. Through the years I’ve had a few shots that stung going in. This wasn’t one of them. I noticed it, but only barely.

With the shot delivered, I was on the move again. I was efficiently escorted down another one-way hall to the waiting area, which turned out to be a sectioned-off portion of the hospital’s main lobby, which, being Saturday morning, was empty anyway. In our area were maybe 20 chairs, all spread apart. I was instructed to sit in one of the chairs for 15 minutes and to report to the nearby medical folks if I was experiencing any problems.

I took a seat and looked around. The socially distanced chairs limited friendly conversation, but it was still interesting to people watch. Several of the newly vaccinated arrived in wheelchairs and tended to made me look young. Many of the old are written off as irrelevant cast-offs. But there was a glint in the eyes of these rolling soldiers that told me they were true warriors — more than ready for a few more battles before hanging up their shields.

After 15 minutes I stood up to leave, feeling fine. In my helpful way, I mentioned to one of the staff that the only thing lacking this morning was a supply of free McDonald’s breakfast burritos for everyone. He said he’d bring it up with the brass. Perhaps by the time I return for my second shot. One can hope.

About six hours later my left arm became somewhat sore. By morning it was gone. Some say the second shot kicks harder than the first. I’ll let you know.

Meanwhile, I’ve really tried to understand why so many people don’t want to get the vaccine. But I have to be honest — I’m still coming up empty.

Chris Huston is an author and award-winning columnist living in southern Idaho. Connect with Chris on both Facebook and Instagram at Chris Huston-Finding My Way and at chrishustonauthor.com.